


purple orchids

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 20:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11112720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: Harold, John is pleased to discover, has athingfor his throat.





	purple orchids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bliphany](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bliphany/gifts).



> For the wonderful **[bliphany](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bliphany/pseuds/bliphany)** , who prompted me with "99. throat + John Reese" from the [100 Random Posts](https://jouissezduprintemps.tumblr.com/post/158032326712/100-random-prompts) prompt list on Tumblr. I'm amused at how we were on the same brain wavelength, so to speak, as I've been actually wanting to write something about... _this_ , for quite sometime now. I'm grateful for the incentive. ;)

 

John doesn’t like wearing anything around his throat.

The CIA trained it out of him; anything constricting can be used to tighten around his neck and squeeze the air out of his windpipe.   It’s partly why he doesn’t particularly like wearing neckties or bowties, no matter how much Harold tries to coax him into them, and only grudgingly concedes when their cover requires more formal attire.  The feel of having something around his neck rankles him, triggering instincts of alarm and memories of lethal chokeholds he had managed to weasel out of through training, skill, and sheer force of will.

The safety precaution of having his throat free, however, is only _part_ of the reason why he refuses to button the collar of his shirt.

John smirks over his cup as he catches Harold quickly glancing away, as if John hasn’t been feeling the heat of his gaze, scalding his skin more heatedly than the coffee sliding down his throat.

Harold, John is pleased to discover, has a _thing_ for his throat.  

It came to his attention when he first showed up to work in the very first suit Harold has ever given him.  He had been in a hurry that morning, distractedly throwing on his clothes and heading to their meeting place without really buttoning the shirt all the way through, leaving the topmost buttons undone.

The way Harold had stared hungrily at the exposed skin of his collar lingered ever after, like imprints of a lover’s fingernails after a night of passion.  Electrifying shivers of pleasure had shot down his spine at the way Harold had marked him even then.

He tried to fight it, he really did.  But can he really be blamed for giving in to the overpowering desire to be _owned_ by a man like Harold Finch? 

He’s profoundly sorry that he can’t wear a collar; he tried, once, and found that he couldn’t even stand a few minutes in it without breaking out in a cold sweat as it brought to mind choking sensations of near-death experiences he had in his unpleasant past.  Harold had taken one look at him, deftly unclasped the collar and murmured gentle reassurances to John’s hair as he collapsed, shuddering in Harold’s arms.

“You don’t have to, John,” Harold had tenderly said; John had frantically shaken his head, knowing that Harold had meant it as a reassurance, and swallowed down the whimper that got caught in his throat, unable to voice what he _really_ wanted:

 _Own me,_ John had wanted to cry in frustration and desperation.  _Mark me.  Make me belong to_ ** _you_** _._

“John?”

Harold’s soft, inquiring voice pulls him out of his pleasant, dazed reverie.  “Hmmm?”

He watches the way Harold hesitates before asking, haltingly:  “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to wear a scarf in this weather?”  Harold tilts his head slightly toward the window of the diner where they were seated, indicating the grey, overcast sky.  “It’s cold out there… particularly this morning.”

John blinks as it takes a few seconds to process what Harold is _really_ asking.  He feels his stomach pooling with warmth, a sultry smile spreading across his lips as he slants his half-lidded gaze at Harold.

“You know I don’t like wearing anything around my neck, Finch,” he murmurs huskily.

He feels his smirk widening at the flush of colour that feathers Harold’s cheeks.  “That… doesn’t seem completely true now, does it, Mr. Reese?”  

There’s a glint of a challenge in Harold’s eyes, part mischief, part helpless satisfaction, and John answers it in turn as he leans forward on his elbows; his shirt gapes open at the collar, revealing the motley of bruises on his throat and collarbone, like a garland of purple orchids strung around his neck, except it’s etched on his skin through tiny blood vessels broken by teeth and tongue.

“I do like wearing marks of your mouth on me, _Harold_ ,” he whispers lowly as the heat in his gut coils tightly into _want_.  

He sees the way Harold’s eyes flash knowingly from behind thick glasses before he calmly sips his cup of Sencha green tea, and John is suddenly seized by the overwhelming impulse to _unravel_ Harold’s composure, right then and there.

It might gain him more marks around his throat, John thinks wildly, remembering the way Harold had slammed him against the door the night before and completely _took him apart_ , mouthing at his neck and sucking on his skin like a man _starved_.

John’s breath hitches as he feels his pants suddenly tighten; he shifts his legs under the table, spreading them, and he sighs at the pleasurable friction of fabric against his throbbing groin.  

Harold sets his cup slowly back down on the table, and John is immensely gratified to see how tightly Harold is grasping it, knowing he isn’t unaffected, either.

“Does it truly satisfy you, John,” Harold says silkily, and John grits his teeth to bite back a groan, “to openly display such a vivid mark of… possession?”

Harold’s gaze is simmering with banked heat, but tempered by genuine curiosity.  Slowly, John slides his palm across the table until his fingertips brush against Harold’s knuckles.

The spark that flares from that slightest skin-to-skin contact sears John to the bone.

“It’s not the possession itself,” John answers, not even bothering to hide his ragged breathing, “but rather, _who_ I’m possessed by that I’m proud to declare.”

The lens of Harold’s glasses only serve to magnify the way Harold’s pupils dilate, his gaze devouring John as greedily as his mouth had last night.  He unclenches his tight hold on the cup to reach out and run his fingers down John’s throat; John instinctively tilts his head back, his eyes fluttering close as he sighs.

Harold pauses and, without warning, presses his fingers _in_ , and John is severely thankful he’s already sitting down, else he might have collapsed from the way the hiss and sting of pleasure suddenly makes him weak in the knees.

The look in Harold’s eyes is immensely satisfied… and completely territorial.

“Let’s declare it loud and clear, then.”

 

 


End file.
